Twice Upon A Time
by Niham87
Summary: After being shot 3 times, Beth Boland was supposed to have died, instead, she was inexplicably thrown back in time. A Time Travel/Bodice-ripper/Season 2 Finale Fix-It


**Summary**

_After being shot 3 times, Beth Boland was supposed to have died, instead, she was inexplicably thrown back in time. _

_In the year 1888, Beth is mistaken for, and forced to impersonate the spiteful Viscountess of Aldeburgh. Despite her best efforts to convince the Viscount she's not his wife, the Viscountess' past lies and betrayals make it difficult, especially when she begins to fall in love with the man who deeply loathes her, the man who looks exactly like her former lover, Rio._

_With more questions than answers and no way to return to her own time, Beth finds herself torn between the memories of the life she left in the future or make the best out of the second chance she was granted._

_Christopher Castillo-Wentworth, the 3rd son of a 2nd marriage, never expected to inherit his estranged father's title. After 6 years, The Viscountcy of Aldeburgh had proven to come with more challenges than the military career he'd known thus far and when rumours of treason and doubts begin to emerge about his fidelity to the crown, the last thing he needs is another skilfully arranged charade from his problematic wife._

_But as time goes by and they forge a connection of the likes he knew to be impossible with his wife, Christopher begins to wonder if their bond hadn't really crossed the boundaries of time, or worse, if he will lose all that he ever wanted._

* * *

_ "What is a soul? It's like electricity - we don't really know what it is, but it's a force that can light a room." _ ** _\- Ray Charles_ **

* * *

**Prologue**

Everyone has a story. A beginning, a middle, an end.

The beginning, no one remembers but there's the story people tell you, usually a mother.

Her mother used to say that she came out of her womb upset about being born; her tiny body shook with pure anger and her face was so red and ruffled that her features couldn't be discerned. And even though Elizabeth Irene Boland (née Marks) screamed and wailed her outrage to the world for at least another hour, she couldn't remember it.

It wasn't her fault. The truth is that birth, just like death, is one of the most traumatic events of human life; as a coping mechanism, our brains are wired to reckon those memories unworthy of saving and that's why we forget them.

Nowadays is becoming easier to remember, even the stuff we don't want to. There are all these different ways to show and tell our story. Elizabeth's life had been full of them. Displays of happiness captured forever, first on paper and tactile, then exposed on rolls of film, later turned into an array of zeros and ones stored in an invisible cloud, instantly made available by a simple touch or voice command.

But again, one story is always two stories; the one they show you and the truth. The real story was rarely captured, elusively out of frame.

To appreciate the full extent of Elizabeth Boland's story was only possible by watching it from the sidelines, which brings us to her end… well, the moments just before it, to be exact.

The end was supposed to be all about truth and after being kidnapped by Rio, only to be bestowed with an unwanted and non-refundable _ "gift" _, you best believe that Elizabeth Boland had been speaking hers.

Dishevelled and frustrated by the confusing and tumultuous feelings she harboured for the man in front of her, Beth fanned the gilded gun's barrel towards the beaten and tied up Agent Turner.

_ "You think he's my problem?" _ She growled in utter disbelief.

"Yeah, he is, mama." Drawled Rio, "So put your big girl panties and take care of it."

Although his tone still held its usual crushed velvet texture, there was a certain grit to it that prompted Beth to flaunt a sudden bout of bruxism.

With the daring recklessness of someone who has no idea it is about to die, Beth Boland flung the gun towards the floor.

_ "He's not my problem." _

Her little dare caused Rio's jaw to tick. There was a thing or two Rio knew about the dangers of anger, but still, he let his carefully cultivated sangfroid blow through the roof.

Just a few seconds earlier, Agent Jimmy Turner had managed to free himself from his restraints. Any other day Rio would have paid more attention to that son of a bitch. But that's the thing about anger, about any feeling in general, emotions cloud your perceptions. The more you feel, the less you think. And boy, didn't he feel_ everything _ in regards to Elizabeth Boland.

So when a menacing Rio, prowled in her direction it was already too late.

"Shut your mouth, bitch, okay? And just—"

He never got a chance to do anything, by the time he glimpsed the bloodied frame of Agent Turner, the son of a bitch was loose and diving towards the gun that Beth had inadvertently tossed just a few feet too close to him.

_ Bang. _

That was it. That was the moment Elizabeth Irene Boland was shot down. The beginning of her end. Well... _ kinda. _

Maybe it was shock or something; but she didn't even scream, her mouth just hung open in muted surprise.

She reached up to her chest and stared down at her bloodstained fingertips in awe. Then she looked up at him. And it was something that Rio would never forget- that wounded turmoil in her eyes.

The rest happened in slow motion but it was over in mere seconds. Acting by instinct, Rio charged towards the loaded gun albeit the aim was never on him.

_ Bang. Bang. _

The gun went off twice again as Beth flumped backwards. Oddly enough it didn't hurt. At least not right away.

The loud thud of her body finding the floor engulfed the crass grunts of both men fighting for the gun. More shots rang throughout the empty loft. The window above her head exploded into tiny fragments, jolting her to draw her first breath in about 15 seconds.

It was that grasp for oxygen that rebooted her lungs and pain receptors alike. The excruciating agony that swamped her was not only overwhelming but also thoroughly enlightening: _ she was going to die. _

It wasn't like she'd spent much time thinking about death before, but settled on an ordinary lifestyle, Elizabeth Irene Boland had expected to die old and rugged.

Life had a funny way of changing your perspectives especially if an alluring crime boss and his guns barged into yours.

Still, she had expected to die old, maybe confessing her double-life to great-grandchildren on her deathbed. Worst-case scenario was dying in prison, alone and perhaps not so old.

But three _ incidental _ gunshot wounds to the torso? And all but spawned by the vindictive FBI Agent she'd _ unwittingly _ crossed? Heck, it seemed a far-fetched way to go for a suburban mother-of-four, even one with a knack for money laundering.

Yet there she was... dying.

Probably hallucinating? It was early September, Detroit's snowy weather still months away. And yet there were thick snowflakes drifting inside from the broken window.

_ Yup, for sure hallucinating. _

Turner's oxford shoes, scruffed against the hardwood floors in a chaotic and desperate dance for freedom. With a few more growls and a final and quite appalling _ snap, _ the struggle happening nearby settled into a deafening silence.

_ Definitely dying. _

Like everyone else, she had overheard the basics about the end. How death was supposed to sweep you in a calming embrace, but that didn't happen for her.

Adrenaline kicked in instead of the promised peace. And the only thing that wrapped her beside a sudden chill was Rio's brawny arms, _ "Ah, shit, baby! No, no, no…" _

She had heard the stories about how your life flashed before your eyes, tunnels and bright lights, but as her blood fought to sail through constricted vessels, all she saw was him.

"You're hurt," she informed as he carefully scanned her body. His shirt sported an expanding wet stain across his shoulder.

"Barely a scratch," he said, pulling out a phone and dialling 911.

The moment his hand touched her upper ribcage, she cried out sharply.

_ "Shit, _ sorry, sweetheart. I need to know where you're hurt," he muttered, the dark and usually unfazed orbs as frantic as his voice. "You're bleedin' too much…"

"Sorry… about the mess." she rasped, "Bloodstains on wood? That's a bitch to clean."

"And you'd know it, huh?" Rio said as he gingerly laid her head back onto the floor. She groaned as his strong hands pressured the wounds on her chest, "You gotta help me here, _ blanquita. _ I ain't got enough hands, we need to stall this bleedin'. Help is almost here." He said over the voice of the 911 operator he'd been giving directions to, "You're gonna be just fine, a'ight?"

Beth shook her fiercely pounding head, the distraught note in his voice only confirming what she already knew.

"There isn't much time…" she rustled, "You should go before the cops show up."

"Don't you dare go all soft on me when just five minutes ago you're yappin' like a mad rottweiler." Rio scoffed, "That boss bitch better come through."

The blunt threat/compliment made a small smile tip the corners of her mouth. She lifted her hand to his face, "For once… the boss bitch should've done exactly as she was told."

"Stop talkin'. Save your strength." His bloodied hand covered hers, nudging it towards his lips. His lips pressed against the centre of her palm, kissing her with the intrinsic flair of who had done it a thousand times before. The visceral familiarity of the gesture was _ odd _ particularly because he'd never kissed her there before.

"I should've shot Turner."

"This ain't the time for the blame game, a'ight? But if you need to blame someone, blame me." The desperation that laced his voice almost matched the shallowness that became her breathing. "We'd already established this shit wasn't your department."

Beth shut her eyelids tightly and focused on her breathing, trying to shush away the panic that had begun taking over every cell of her body. But her terror was very real; she was dying.

She'd also heard the stories about the lost loved ones supposedly waiting for you on the flip side. But as she lay on the floor, bleeding to death, the truth was very clear: everyone she truly cared about was still on this side.

A lone and involuntary tear slid across her cheek as she looked up at him. At least she would die looking at something beautiful. "I hate to be… so much _ work… _ till the end, but—"

_ "Goddamn it, Elizabeth! _ You know it ain't like that! I dunno what the hell it is but it was never just… _ work." _ Dread shot through his voice as he tried to staunch the flow of blood in vain. "Can we discuss me being a fuckin' asshole when I stop this bleeding?"

"Bossy as always," she had the audacity to laugh, although the sound never lived past the rattle on her chest. "Please… tell my kids… how much I—"

_ "No!" _Rio snapped in total contrast with the kind hand cradling her cheek. Tenderly, he brushed a sweat-matted golden strand back off her face, "You're gonna tell them yourself. And you'll keep on being a fine ass mother. Is that clear?"

"Y'never… sugarcoated… me. Don't start… now." Beth coughed out, rushing a pre-metallic tang up her esophagus.

_ "Enough." _Rio choked out, "The medics are on their way…"

"I don't... get… it,"_ she began the _ words but it all ended in an incoherent gurgle that Rio would never get quite clear, "_Of all the lives in this world, I had to butt in on yours?" _

And as she slowly, but inevitably, just _ slipped away _, Elizabeth Boland was sure that that question would remain forever unanswered.

"Elizabeth! Fight, damn you!" Rio shook her, "_I can't lose you again!" _

Slightly awake, she grappled for a horrifying and culminating breath, managing nothing but fill her mouth with blood.

That tinny taste was the last thing she savoured. That warm breath, brought by Rio's supple lips against her clammy temple, the last thing she felt.

"_Elizabeth, look at me." _

That agonizing command was the last thing she heard. And she tried, she really did, but found it impossible to open her eyes.

_ Where was the tunnel? The promised light? The flashbacks? _

Well, she didn't need a fucking movie of her life to know that her story had been - _ at best _ \- one of privileged mediocrity.

_ Some bullshit, if you asked her. _

All she felt was immense anger as she faded away into darkness.

_ Not even peace, huh? _

_ Not. Fucking. Fair. _

At 2:07 am Elizabeth Boland had lost almost 30% of her blood volume. She passed out, destined to die in the warm pool of her own blood, as angry as she was born.

Now, this is when her story becomes interesting.

The moon is responsible for much of what takes place on the surface of the Earth. A stray meteor hit the moon in 1625. The resulting concussion would cause extreme tides on every Lunar phase. The rise in the mean tide produced a super-storm off the New Hampshire coast, North America. An excessive increase in the amount of molecular ionization in the atmosphere concentrated in the Detroit Metro area, more than 700 miles away.

Elizabeth Boland did not hallucinate. On that night of September 2019, and for the first time in 197 years, snow fell in Wayne County, Michigan.

In the last stages of hypovolemic shock, Elizabeth Boland's organs began to shut down. Her metabolism slowed to a crawl. Within two minutes, aided by the low temperatures, her core temperature had dropped to 87 degrees. Her heart stopped beating.

Exactly four minutes later, at 2:11 am, she was, by any definition, dead. That was when the paramedics placed two defibrillator paddles on her chest and counted the prescribed 5 seconds before administering 750 volts of electricity. This effectively restarted her heart, but in return sent her into a state of unresponsive wakefulness.

No one would know exactly why or how — at least not for another 394 years, when time travel was scientifically proven and exponentially conducted, and not without the development of the _ Digital Soul Tethering _ (aka _ D.S.T.) _, a technology which allowed to permanently preserve the human consciousness and thus granted immortality, for those who could afford it, of course — but that night, Elizabeth Irene Boland cheated death.

In all of our Multiverse, there was only one other known instance where the same quantum and atmospherical conditions had been reproduced... 131 years before.

* * *

_ September 1888 (Exactly 131 years earlier) _

Everyone knew that the Viscountess of Aldeburgh was an outstanding rider. She possessed the kind of horsemanship which was considered remarkable for a Lady, especially one of her time and status.

Her artistry as a rider was only seconded by her beauty; with blue-blooded translucent skin, a gorgeous fall of tarnished golden hair and a figure with more curves than the waves of the North Sea, it wasn't for naught that she was famed as the most exquisite pearl of the British aristocracy.

It was also known she was a creature of _ many _ and _ peculiar _ customs, almost none of them good. But perhaps her more scandalous and well-known wont was exercising astride on horseback, clad in sinfully moulding cherry-red breeches, at least two times a week.

So despite the unexpected front of cold on that early morning, Mickey - the stable lad whose name she had not bothered to learn for the last 5 years - wasn't surprised when the Viscountess instructed him to saddle her husband's favourite stallion.

If someone noticed him watching the Viscountess canter away onto her usual Saturday ride, it could be said that Mickey was enamoured by her Ladyship. To that, Mickey would _ with all due respect _ answer: Maybe, if she wasn't such a _ bitch. _

A few minutes later, with her horse at full throttle, the Viscountess looked over her shoulder to observe the fading silhouette of the red herringbone brick manor — the one that for the past six years she had loathed with all of her little black heart — when something highly unusual occurred. Something almost magical, at least for that early in the year. Snow fell in that part of the Suffolk coast.

Despite the snowfall, the Viscountess was set into putting as much distance as she could from the open pastures of Ives Estate and consequently her _ dear _ Lord husband, the Viscount of Aldeburgh, Christopher Castillo-Wentworth.

The one thing she had to give her husband, the man knew how to pick his beasts - perhaps because he too was one - it simply took a light squeeze of her knees to make the stallion spring forward into a smooth gallop.

With the carefreeness of someone who didn't know they were about to die, the Viscountess allowed herself to think of nothing but the joy of riding. Left to his own head, the animal ate up ground with his surefooted stride and soon she was leaving the marsh wetlands behind and arrived at her destination.

By the shoreline, the Viscountess slowed the stallion to a walk. The skies above the shingled beach were as dark and grey as the horses' foamed coat. The waves raged against the white-painted bank of sand and stone. The fluffy coat of snow covered the stallion hooves almost completely. The temperature had dropped quite significantly. Her teeth rattled and despite the lined Cabretta leather gloves, her hands were stiff with cold.

Unbeknownst to her, The Viscountess of Aldeburgh had now entered the first stages of hypothermia.

Beneath her, the stallion snorted, stopping to a sudden halt that could have thrown another not so experienced rider. The Viscountess quickly recovered composure. The animal's ears pricked forward as if he'd heard something. A razor-edge frisson caused the hair on the back of the Viscountess's neck to stand up. And surely, not even a second later, a humongous thunder clapped just above them.

The Viscountess never heard the whicker of another horse right behind her nor the heavy steps scrunching against the fresh snow. She was too busy trying to maintain herself on the saddle of a bucking stallion to notice the approaching cloaked figure. Despite her best efforts, she failed. The scared animal jerked one more time and she was jolted towards the ground.

The fall itself wasn't so bad. With a painful grunt but still quick on her feet, the Viscountess managed to roll away from the stomping hooves.

If she hadn't been about to be murdered, the Viscountess would have been lucky to tell her peers that she had scraped away from a bucking stallion with a few bruised ribs and scabbed knees.

She raised her hands and tried to calm the crazed animal. Unfortunately, the Viscountess wasn't known for either patience or empathy.

"What in the hell has gotten into you, _ you bloody mutt?" _

As if understanding the insult, the proud Andalusian tossed his head and impertinently stood on its muscular hindquarters. The powerful front hooves loomed lethally above the woman's head. Worried by the possible looming death, the Viscountess never saw her real one incoming.

At exactly 7:09 am, a plank of solid wood was swung towards her temple. The immediate impact fractured her skull. The blunt force trauma caused a concussion and followed a complete loss of consciousness. Her limp body slumped into the shallow shoreside.

The immersion in the frigid water caused the Viscountess' body to go into an anoxic reflex, instantly stopping her breathing. Within two minutes, her core temperature had dropped to 87 degrees, her heart stopped beating. Due to the extent of her injuries, The Viscountess of Aldeburgh was now, by any definition, brain dead.

That stray meteor that hit the moon in 1625 additionally generated extreme tides on that Saturday morning of September 1888 and produced a super-storm off the North Sea Coast, causing an excessive increase in the amount of molecular ionization in the atmosphere, especially concentrated in that part of the Suffolk County.

At 7:11 am, a bolt of lightning struck the beach, discharging half a billion volts of electricity and producing 60,000 amperes of current throughout the ocean. If it wasn't for the fact that the Viscountess was clinically dead, its effect would have been threefold and unsurvivable.

First, the charge defibrillated the Viscountess's heart.

Second, she was jolted out of her anoxic state, causing her to draw her first breath in two minutes.

Third and technically speaking, it was Elizabeth Irene Boland whom took said breath.

Based on the still undiscovered Tegmark's Principle of Electron Compression in Gravitational Deoxyribonucleic Acid Molecules (and some bizarre weather conditions) Elizabeth Boland's soul was, now and henceforth, tethered to her ancestor's body.

In plain, boring English: Elizabeth Irene Boland had travelled back in time, and very much effectively, cheated death.

This is her story.


End file.
